Beyond the Mirror
by PaintingGlass
Summary: In the end, the smallest change is enough to move worlds. It's just a lipstick, but if you move it this way... Dark romance.
1. The Smallest Change

**Beyond The Mirror**

**Chapter One: The Smallest Change**

The mirror always turns a modicum darker when she thinks of him.

It's the same old dresser Sarah has had ever since she was a little girl, just simple wood and a pale and unobtrusive coat of paint, but now there is less clutter upon it, fewer remnants of her childhood to cling to. In their place stands a single row of toiletries and cosmetics: anything from tall bottles of shampoo and conditioner to slim, glossy tubes of lipstick, and heavy-bottomed perfume bottles. There are nineteen objects in total, and each item has been laid out with exquisite care, sides touching, a line that stretches from one end of her mirror to the other. There's not a single speck of dust to mar them, everything pin-neat and in its proper place, and Sarah's stepmother is just so _pleased_ at the way she's finally begun to take pride in her bedroom. It's a habit that began over three years ago now, a new and wonderful sense of responsibility undertaken after just one night of babysitting. Irene hardly does anything beyond pop her head around the door with the laundry these days, always gushing about just how clean and _perfect_ everything is.

She doesn't realise that, whenever one of those cosmetics is in use, there is always another, cautiously moved to take its place in line.

She has no idea that Sarah counts her row of possessions each night, touching each still and silent sentry in turn to ensure their rank has not been broken.

She never sees the tiny scratches that mark one corner of Toby's new, big boy bed, and the left-hand corners of all the house's doors and windows. She never catches sight of the tiny iron filings that have been carefully embedded within each notch, just in case.

She doesn't know that Sarah's choice to go on living at home, attending a local college instead of one of the many others she was accepted to, wasn't a choice at all.

She'll _never_ know just how many sleepless nights Sarah spends in front of her dresser, staring into her mirror to dread and to dream in endless succession.

There is magic and wonder in the worlds and curious beings beyond that mirror, should Sarah ever truly need them, and on those brave nights where she once dared enough to reach out to them.

Calling upon her friends from the Underground always causes a stir, shimmering ripples beneath the glass, but it's been many weeks now since last she saw them, long months since any of her happier memories have prompted her to ask them into her world for a chat, or perhaps even a cup of tea. The faces of those faithful friends are fading from her mind now, whilst that of another only grows clearer. As much as she tries to deny it, despite the measures she's taken to ensure he's kept out, it's their king that she wants.

She hasn't seen the Goblin King since the day she defied him, and yet she remains corrupted, marked by his interest. The girl in the book she used to love said the right words and won, but real life goes on after the happy ending. Sarah can't help wondering if the girl changed her mind too, long after the pages ended. She knows his offer still stands. It's almost like a sixth sense, that knowing, the unending awareness of him, and it itches inside her mind, and far deeper beneath her skin than her gnawed nails could ever reach. He's enchanted her, tricked his way into her desires with no real effort on his part, but there's no clear end in sight, and no magic phrase to make her stop wanting him. If even the thought of him makes her wet, his being alone filling her with dark delight, she knows her chances of escaping him a second time are slim.

She's not a girl any longer, and there have been plenty of opportunities to sneak the odd boyfriend up into her bedroom, but she's never taken them. She fucks in the back seats of cheap, banged up old cars, and in untidy rooms that smell of stale sweat socks, and come, and too much body spray. She lets them seduce her onto her back, or sometimes into their laps, her top bunched up beneath her chin and her skirt pulled up around her hips for easy access. Sometimes, when she tosses her hair over her face and fakes her climax, she almost lets herself forget just who she's hiding from. When she returns home after these unsatisfying encounters, smelling of Axe, and sweat, and latex, she strips away every last scrap of clothing, and stands nude before her mirror. The glass is always dark on those nights, and there's no real way of telling if she's being watched from within, and only thick fog inside her mind when she asks herself if she really wants to be. In front of that mirror, she's fingered herself to silent and staggering orgasm more times than she can remember, but she's never yet dared to speak his name.

It's a dangerous cycle, she knows, but it's one she hasn't had the will strong enough to break. The only safe way to stop it would be to deny herself, and she hasn't got the stomach for that, either. Like any addict, she finds her fix never keeps her satisfied for long. Her needs are growing, screaming louder and louder each day, draining more and more of her resources until she's desperate, struggling to hold on, and even her own expert fingers can't keep up with her demands.

In the end, the smallest change is enough to move worlds.

It's a night like any other, and when she arrives home late from Jason's, the rest of her family is already sleeping. Just as well, because she's frustrated beyond belief, and itching to get out of her clothes so badly that she starts on the way upstairs. By the time she has her bedroom door closed behind her, she has her jacket and sweater off, and is already starting on her bra. It falls to her feet, forgotten, as she steps out of her shoes and first notices the breach in her defences.

She reaches her dresser at a near run, where her widened eyes only confirm her panic. Whether caused by her own desperate hurry to leave that evening, or forces far beyond her, a single tube of lipstick is out of rank, standing at least an inch out of its place in line.

Her hands fly into her hair, pushing the heavy locks back from her forehead in disbelief as she stares at the slender, silver tube, almost as if she can _will_ it back into place. It's only lipstick, and not even one of her favourite shades, but it means her wall against what lies beyond the mirror has been forever broken. It was never a real barrier, not half as effective as the iron filings might have been in keeping unwanted creatures away – if he has any weakness at all – but to see it fail her is a shock to the system. Her body works hard to process it, speeding along her breathing and heart rate to cope with the sudden spike of adrenaline, and yet her mind remains temporarily frozen in panic. He isn't here, not yet – he has no power over her, and she needs to remember that – but just thinking about him turns the mirror its darkest shade yet. The smooth surface is almost black, striking and almost malevolent amidst the far lighter, kinder colours that surround it. It's all him, like he's made himself at home here completely without her permission, just as he has within her mind, and all at once she has had enough. If she's going to fall into this, far deeper than the darkest oubliette he has to offer, then she's doing it on her own terms.

She slides her fingers into the small gap the tube has made, and she makes it wider, spreading her arms like Moses parting the Red Sea, but there's no pathway to salvation to be had here. As if at a distance, she hears the sounds her hoarded treasures make as they hit the floor, and she feels the heavy thud, the biting of tiny teeth on her bare toes as something shatters. She looks only into the black void before her, and knows that he stares back.

"Goblin King," she croaks, and wets her lips with her tongue. "_Jareth_," she says, and it's far stronger.

The mirror responds.


	2. The Last Obstacle

**Beyond the Mirror**

**Chapter Two: The Last Obstacle**

Smoke and shadow shift like sand to reveal him within the dark depths of the glass, and she feels the abrupt pitch and fall of her heart as it continues to beat somewhere within the pit of her stomach. He's still as regal and refined as ever, his face just as alluring, all that pale golden hair ruffled to perfection to frame his features, like so much lavish plumage to entice her with. His stare is an intense, unblinking blue, and there's a cocksure smile upon his satiny lips that tells her he has awaited this exact moment ever since their last meeting did not end in his favour.

Sarah feels all the things she's ever wanted to say to him dry up upon her tongue. Her chest feels tighter than its even been, encumbered by lust, fear and awe, but she won't let herself be bogged down by emotion. The Goblin King says not a word through her turmoil, and it's clear she's expected to make the first move.

If he expects her to beg, to apologise for boldly, _rightfully_ telling him to go pound sand back then, he's in for a hell of a disappointment.

"You're actually here." The words are pulled from her by her own reluctant sense of wonder, spoken into the terse space between them too loudly to be recanted.

"You called for me by name. Surely you're aware by now that certain words, spoken in a certain manner, hold a particular power – _Sarah_."

His voice urges her whole being into a state of high alert; every word is a slow caress delivered by a resolute and expert hand, and each low, throbbing note does more for her woefully neglected body than she's felt in months. She realises, then, the gravity of her error, just how stupid an idea it was to call him here whilst she's in her current state of arousal. He's the match to her touchpaper, brought so very, dangerously close, where only one stray spark, a single word from that perfect, pouting mouth of his could incinerate her. She tells herself she won't flinch, won't even _blink_ first in this new game of theirs. She won't be beaten, no turning back now, no way she'll let herself appear weak before him … and yet a sizeable part of her wonders if she _could_ send him back, even if she wanted to. The words of power she once spoke, the ones that have become her keystone whenever she's felt small and intimidated over the years, now feel false and mealy in her mouth.

"I …_ I_ summoned you here," she says, and tries her hardest not to make it sound like a question.

"Invited," he corrects, with a matter-of-fact turn of his hand. He's still wearing the gloves she sometimes thinks of in her most intimate moments, his fingers sheathed in dark, rich leather. "I chose to accept. Was there something else you wished to discuss?" He speaks as if their last meeting happened only hours, even minutes ago. Just like her, it's clear he hasn't forgotten a thing. For all the tension that now simmers between them, it could be that same fated night after his defeat at her hands, only he never looked at her quite this way back then.

The slight chill that touches her shoulders and tightens her nipples reminds her of her state of undress, but she has no desire to cover herself before him. His sharp eyes sweep over her bare breasts and stomach as if admiring a particularly pretty painting he's imagined a hundred times before, but has yet to see in person, reverent and covetous. He wants her, makes no secret of it with that purposeful stare, but as his eyes return to her face it's clear he's content to set desire aside for the time being. Talk will come first, the small matters of his right to gloat, and of barter, before he will see fit to grant her what she wants. Sarah thinks he must be able to _smell_ the opportunity, the lust that's gathering, dampening her core, and like any of the tricksy, otherworldly folk, he'll do everything in his power to bleed her for every last drop that he can.

Her jaw tightens. "You know. You already know what I want from you, or else you wouldn't have come here."

"I imagine you know what's said about making assumptions. Let's begin again, shall we? You invited me this evening for a particular purpose, which was …?" Her stubborn silence lends his presence weight, and he laughs, and seems to grow even taller before her eyes. "Oh, come now, Sarah, don't be a spoilsport," he chides her. "I was so looking forward to hearing the words from you."

She glares into the eyes that have fuelled her every shameful fantasy. "I want you," she grinds out. "Come on, you already _know_ that, and now that you're here-"

"Not _quite_, love." He lifts a single finger to tap at the barrier that still separates them, and the glass seems to fold in on itself. It ripples in reverse, starting at the mirror's outer edges and honing in on the point of his contact. "So near, and yet so far."

Folding her arms across her ribcage is a sign of her vulnerability, but it also lifts her breasts for his perusal – a fact she's highly aware of. "So come through."

His smirk says he's been waiting for the opportunity to refuse that demand. "Ah, but if it were only so simple. You see, you took from me the power to move freely in your domain, and so if you truly want this, Sarah, then you must make way for me. You must find a way to bring me through to you."

Her hands fall to her sides. "But … I don't … I can't …"

His oppressive stare leaves no room for excuses. "You will," he says softly.

She doesn't trust him enough to know if he speaks the truth or not, but one thing is clear: he isn't getting through that mirror unless it's by her efforts. She won't be thwarted now, not when she's some so close to giving in; not when he is so close to being hers.

She will do what he says. She will obey. It's taken him over three years, but he finally has all that he once asked from her.

She loves him in her own reluctant way, simply for existing, for proving that nightmares, dreams, and even rashly spoken wishes _can_ come true, and that the wild tales of fantasy that she loves can be made real.

She fears him, but not in the way he perhaps originally intended. Now, in her yearning for him, that fear is mostly of how far this one man could make her fall.

She focuses on the mirror, the last obstacle that stands between them.

She alone has the power to bring it down.

There are many ways she could break that barrier, a dozen solid enough implements still whole and littering the floor around her feet, but she uses none. She wants herself to suffer at least a little for wanting this. Her mind is set in its purpose as she raises one determined fist above her head. She swings it down like a hammer, pounding the glass through the pain once, twice, until it splinters and then shatters. Broken fragments rain down onto the dresser and the carpet beyond as she stumbles backwards, blood dripping from her slackening fist. There's no backing to the mirror, no wall beyond the painted glass; she can see only thick, gaping darkness, but a rush of air forces her eyes closed before she can stare too long into the abyss. When she opens them again, he is standing before her.

She remembers the last time he came to her, the sweeping cloak and dark layers upon layers of armour. He was dressed to impose, to intimidate that day, but now his attire serves a different purpose entirely. He's far less formal in a ruffled white shirt that stands open enough to expose plenty of smooth, pale skin; he stands just as tall and majestic in high boots and tight, tan breeches that are wrapped tight around every inch of his long, lean legs. The buckle of his belt is a bird's skull crafted from silver – a crow, or perhaps a raven – and twin onyx stones wink and glitter from the dark depths of its eye sockets. Though she knows it's another subtle trick of his, Sarah can't help but meet and follow the bird's stare downward to where it rests at the crux of his thighs, where the size and shape of him is hardly concealed. He's content for her to see what he has waiting for her, and his lack of modesty or decency makes her mouth dry and her aching sex that little bit slicker.

He gives her only a heartbeat to admire him before he comes to claim her. As he closes the small gap between them, even the broken glass around his feet does his bidding, each fragment scuttling aside to make way for their king.

Her injured hand hangs limp at her side, and he lifts it between his, the cool leather of his gloves a treat for her burning skin. There's an even greater pain as he presses his lips against her wound, a sick twist of pleasure in the pit of her stomach as he turns her hand to lick the dripping blood from her knuckles. Her eyes widen as she takes in the dance of pink and red, the white flash of his teeth, and her heartbeat steps up another notch, until she can feel it humming through her ribs. His eyes find hers as he slips his long tongue into the sensitive cleft between each of her fingers. By the time he sucks her index finger whole into his warm, wet mouth, her wounds, along with all her pain, have disappeared. Touted by the shadowy, snake-eyed hucksters of her dreams, he's the miracle cure for all that ails her, the salve for all her ills, and all at once she's greedy for more, welcoming him as at last he turns his full attention to her mouth. He kisses her, and she grasps the back of his neck to keep his lips hard upon hers as she kisses him back, and all the while she can't help but wonder what poison he feeds her from his tongue, that she's so desperate for it to consume all of her.

There's no enchanted peach to be blamed this time, and her mind is alarmingly clear as it demands more. His kiss is deep, thorough, as tuned to perfection as the rest of him, and yet there's an explicit roughness there, a sense of near ravenous hunger that keeps her on a delicious borderline between pleasure and fear. He's holding himself back, but barely, when she knows a dark creature like him could just as easily swallow her whole. He's tailored his entire being to her liking, ready to offer her just what she most yearns for, and as a teenager, that was a Prince Charming to call her own, to shower her in love and affection and drown her in sweet nothings. Now, what she yearns for the most is a hard, _filthy_ fuck, no holds barred, and no whispered words beyond the wicked things he plans to do to her. She pants in heat as he breaks the kiss to draw her against his warm body.

"I half expected a trembling virgin," he murmurs into her hair, his voice thick with lust, yet still tinged with that smug sense of amusement that says this is all a lark to him. "And yet, from that kiss, it's clear you're going to exceed my expectations." His voice drops another degree, and its sultry caress all but turns her tummy inside out. "Who taught you how to fuck for me, precious?"

She asks him – and not nicely – if he really needs the ego massage, the comparison of an overeager teenage boy to a being with far more experience, and far more twisted ideas of fun. Jareth chuckles in return.

"I suppose not. Your asking of me here just to have you is flattery enough. So refreshing, to find a girl who's so certain of what she wants." His mouth lifts in a disquieting little smile. "I think I'll take your cunt first, and then we'll just see where the evening takes us, shall we?" His words are as light as air, cheery almost. They could be discussing the weather, only his hands are working their way along her body, smooth, cool leather that lights fire beneath her skin, seeking out every secret, sensitive place until she has nothing left to hide from him. There's no way of him knowing the particular part of her throat that has the capacity to turn her legs to jelly, and yet that's just where his soft lips latch on, sucking, nipping, until she's moaning and helpless in his embrace.

He reaches up beneath her skirt and between her legs, and he starts to stroke her through the tiny patch of lace that covers her. His eyes are fixed, not on his task, but on her own glassy stare, feeding on her pleasure. She rocks her hips into his touch, but he works her at his own pace, holding back when needed and then pushing, pushing, until her soaked panties are nearly being thrust up inside her. She barks out a sharp protest when he stills his hand.

"Why don't you be a good girl and help me take off my gloves, so I can feel you properly?" He doesn't move that hand, and he huffs soft laughter as she makes grudging, awkward attempts to dismount his fingers. "I never said I'd stop touching you while you did it, love, and I'm _certainly_ not going to make it easy for you. Try the other one first. I want you to use your imagination to get it off – and anything but your hands."

Even as they work towards the same end, to have skin upon skin, he still refuses to help her, keeping her gasping, distracted by that unyielding press of his fingers. They stand at odds instead, he reigning at his most smug and supreme above her, she growing more and more impatient with his arrogance. He clearly wants her to struggle. She sees it in his twisted smile, visions of being driven to her knees with that merciless hand still between her legs. No doubt he expects her squirming and helpless, willing to do anything he demands of her, able to do naught but tug at his glove with her teeth like a good little pup. Instead, she clamps her thighs down _hard_ around his hand, trapping his fingers and stilling his teasing touch.

"Why don't you work it off yourself?" she bites back, in sheer rebellion, and squeezes down harder still. If she hurts him, so much the better.

Unfortunately for her, Jareth _loves_ it. "With utmost pleasure," he murmurs, flushed and a little breathless now himself. He reclaims his hand in short, jerky bursts of force, tugging against her grip as the leather chafes all along her inner thighs. It's a fight they both win, each letting out an impromptu groan when his hand finally pulls free, sans glove.

When she allows for him to tease the leather out from between her legs, she can actually hear him panting a little. He looks at her, and nothing happens for several thudding heartbeats, and it occurs to her that she's forced him off-kilter enough to need a moment to regain his composure. The fire in his eyes fills her with delicious heat, and she's content just to feed on it until he's ready to resume the proceedings. It only takes him a matter of seconds to snap back into action. His eyes remain locked with hers as he raises his other hand … only to strip the remaining glove off with his teeth.

It's a sweet taste of victory, her first of the night, but even that is tainted by desire. The action peels his lower lip back from his teeth, revealing a line of pink, intimate flesh within, and she wants to taste it, to learn its sweet contours with her tongue. The second glove barely slips past his fingertips before she's on him again, pressed up hard against his chest, her lips sealed over his. She owns that kiss, dominates the hot confines of his mouth, but once again it's he who pulls back first.

He grins and leaves her yearning for more, and doesn't seek permission as he perches himself on the very edge of her neatly-made bed. "This _is_ a special occasion. Ordinarily, I'd never presume much more than a kiss on a first date, but you've never been an ordinary girl, have you, Sarah? No, _precious_ girls like you get to have far more." He's going to make her fuck him in her own house, the place where all this madness first began – in his own sweet time.

"Take your skirt off for me, pet." He shakes a finger at her when she ducks her head and reaches back for her zipper. "For _me_, Sarah, not just for the sake of undressing. You've already deprived me of a full striptease this evening, and as lovely as your tits are, I expect a _real _show as you reveal the rest. I imagine your boyfriends are happy just to have something soft to drool and paw at, but _I_ am not." He twirls that long finger in a loose and lazy circle. "Turn around and let me see you work that zip down _slowly_ – and since you're clearly inexperienced at this part, I'll even help you: I expect you to bend over all the way, until the skirt's around your ankles." When her irritable tongue outs him as the pervert he is, he laughs and corrects her. "I'd consider myself more of a hedonist, love, but I'm looking forward to teaching you the difference between the two."

Once more, she does as she is told, and by the time she's bent at the waist with her bottom in the air and her skirt knotted up in her fists, she doesn't know which set of cheeks burns the hottest. As it's slowly exposed to him, her whole body feels like it's been set alight by her shame and his searing stare. Her hair hangs down around her face as she bows down to his will, but everything else is clearly on show.

"Spread your legs wider – yes, that's beautiful," he murmurs. "And so wet, too. You're going to have to practically _peel_ these off." He plucks at the soaked gusset of her panties without warning, mindful not to graze the sensitive flesh just beneath, but she reacts as if she's been electrocuted, jolting forwards with a squeal. She almost shivers her way out of her skin when Jareth lays a hand upon the small of her back – a supposedly calming caress that has the adverse affect on her libido.

"And so _tense_!" He laughs as his other hand palms her right buttock, squeezing her through the thin lace. "I wonder what would relax you. Shall we make you come first, just to take the edge off?" She can almost see the thoughtful, mocking purse of his lips as he considers the possibility. She's unprepared as he thumbs her underwear aside and darts his hot tongue up along her slit.

"Fu-_uuuck_!" She's bent almost in two, but that sinful swipe has her standing straight again in a hurry. Before she realises what she's doing, she's yanked the bunched up hem of her skirt along with her, stuffing the coarse fabric between her teeth and biting it to stifle her cries.

The hand at her back forces her back down.

She still manages to groan out her pleasure as he continues to explore her with his tongue, unable to stop herself, unable to think of a single thing to say if – _when_ – someone catches them with her head in her skirt, and his face buried in her cunt. She's _never_ been eaten this way, his mouth attuned to her needs, lapping, sucking at her swollen lips and clit as his nose nudges its way into the cleft of her ass. He tilts his chin, and when he manages to wind that skilled tongue up inside her and starts to fuck her with it, she's honestly sure she'll pass out. The low, throaty grunt of pleasure he makes is almost enough to make her come. He has her whole body trembling with his efforts, and she's still grinding her hips for him, seeking out just enough to take her over the edge before she blacks out completely, when she notices he's withdrawn.

He slips her panties back into place with a deep sigh of contentment. "You can finish undressing now," he tells her, as if he hasn't just left her teetering on the brink; as if the evil fucker doesn't still have her juices wetting his mouth.

She's no more than stepped out of the skirt when she receives the new order to face him. It's impossible to resist scowling down at him when she sees him already lying back on her bed, reclined against her masses of pillows like some Roman emperor as if he belongs there. He moves fast when it suits him, but once again it's languor he craves from her. She hooks her thumbs into her panties and _inches_ the damned things down her legs, her breasts heavy and swaying, her head held up high and her eyes always, _always_ on his, as he demands. When she straightens again, she is naked, and his stare is as blackened by lust as he once turned her mirror. She thinks he'll have her suck him off first, the vengeful king taking his pleasure in more of her subjugation – and what could be more fitting than to have her kneel at his feet, any words of power she might speak silenced by his thick cock? When he rises from the bed, however, she can see that he's through with playing silly games.

He extends a hand for her, and when she grasps hold of it, she finds they're no longer standing in her bedroom.


	3. Immoral Pleasure

**Beyond the Mirror**

**Chapter Three: Immoral Pleasure**

Their new surroundings are etched from those same murky shadows that once dwelt within her mirror, formless masses of endless black and smoky grey, and yet she can see _him _perfectly well. Along with the burdens of the real world, he seems also to have shed his tight clothing, and when he draws her into his arms, she can feel all of him, _touch_ all of him. She welcomes his tongue into her mouth as she slides her palms along the firm planes of his chest, curls her fingers around his narrow waist and slips lower, down to the tight curves of his ass. His cock rests heavy against her stomach, his pre-come hot upon her skin, and she rolls her hips to feel more of him, letting his excitement wet her belly, making him want her just as much as she needs him. He kisses her back and rocks his body into hers the way it's always meant to have been, his hands sliding down to her buttocks to pull her closer. There's a delicious pulse between her legs and she's all but dripping for him, more than ready to take it further, welcoming every hot lick, every sharp nick of his teeth against her neck. His soft whispers fill her ear.

"Give in, Sarah. Let me have you, welcome me into you, and you shall have everything that you've ever wanted. I'll be your ruler, your slave. I'll be anything you want me to be, just as you'll belong to me. Let me fuck you, my precocious girl … my most precious plaything … my sweet, sweet Sarah..."

She feels herself lifted, her legs moving by instinct to trap his hips between them, and then he's lowering her down onto her back, smoke and silk against her skin. He tugs her bottom lip between his teeth as he settles himself on top of her. One small rock of his hips has him in place, the wide tip of him poised at her entrance, pressing just hard enough to hold her open without pushing inside. It's the same position she's let herself be coaxed into a dozen or more times, but this time the slight weight that comes down atop her feels oddly final. This is what she's wanted for so long, and it hasn't been an easy journey to get here, but now … now …

She lifts her hands up, meaning to grip his shoulders, to hold him back just long enough to think, but she's already lost her head. Instead, her fingers slip through the warm silk of his hair to clutch at his nape, urging him nearer. Even so, she gives up her last bit of resistance. "This … this is … wrong …"

"And you're really about to let that stop you?" His smile could charm the birds down out of the trees, and leave the poor, wretched things twitching in their death throes within his snare. She's been caught the same way, blushing all kinds of red under him, hurting with the need to be filled and hating herself just a little bit more for it. "You need only say no, and I'll leave you to your mortal boys, or perhaps your own touch. _Do_ you want this, Sarah?" he asks in his sweetest tone. "Oh, tell me that you do. I want very much to hear it."

She's about to say yes.

His hands come down upon either side of her face, sinking down into the blackness that envelops them, until she can no longer see his fingers. "But first, would you like to know a secret, pet?" That sly smile hovers only inches above her lips. "Of course you would, being such a fanciful, curious thing as you are." His kiss is a delightful distraction from his talk of secrets, or any other tricks he might have in store. She's keen to allow it to go on, words be damned, but he does not forget. Immoral pleasure darkens his eyes as he draws back to tell his little tale. "I've been privy to every single moment you've spent mooning over me. I've felt the change in your aura every time you've touched yourself in my name. Night after night, I've watched your fingers disappear up into that tight, dripping, _lonely_ pussy of yours, while you panted, and moaned, and wished they were mine."

He soothes the humiliation, the sheer devastation of the blow with another, softer kiss, and then goes on to tear the wound right back open with his low laughter. "Oh, you needn't _blush_ so, Sarah. I've found the whole thing rather enjoyable, and most flattering. I'll admit, after the impressive show you put on within my labyrinth, how much venom lay within your eyes when you confronted me, I never expected to one day end up quite so deeply beneath your skin – a fortunate error on my part. There's such a fire within you, so much spirit and tenacity that it humbled even one such as I. You believed in yourself even more than you believed in me. It was such a pleasant surprise to realise I'd get to have you for my very own after all. At first, I only wanted you for the power it would grant me, but now …" His hips tip forwards, teasing, still without breeching her. "Well, let's just say that both of our needs have changed since then."

His dark, devious chuckle sends more slick heat to pool down between her thighs. "You were so very clever that day to declare yourself my equal, denying me my power over you, weren't you? I couldn't reach you after that first night, couldn't pay a visit even in alternate forms, with how very hard you tried to keep me out. Still, there are loopholes to your primitive, mortal magicks, and ways of making even my most unfaithful subjects pass on a simple message. I could have sought this out long ago, when you first started to desire me, and despite your stubbornness you might even have agreed to it, if the offer first came from a friendly face – Hogwart, wasn't it? He might have asked you back into the Underground for a second visit, and once there, I might have made arrangements for us to have ourselves another little tête-à-tête. Even so, I think this is a far more agreeable outcome, don't you?"

Another hot stab of his cock against her opening forces a gasp of pleasure from her open lips, and he breathes it all in, a look of triumph burning deep within his eyes. "This is all by your doing. You came back to me of your own accord, Sarah. You needed this enough to let me back in. I get to watch the sweet look on your face as you give in to me, as I slide deep inside you … and as you take every last inch of me, you'll know – you'll _finally_ know – that in my world, there is no black and white, no clear winners or losers. You walked free of my labyrinth, and you denied me my appeal to rule over you, but it wasn't _my_ desire you needed to be wary of, was it? Only by your command have I come to take what you offer. You seem to wield all of the power here, my love – but not the power to _resist_."

He kisses her again, makes her moan into his mouth, but as he pulls himself back from the draw of her tongue, the look in his eyes tells her his patience is almost at its end. "So, once again, Sarah, knowing all that you know, knowing me for who I am … do you want this? Do you want me?"

She wants to say no, for no other reason than for the pleasure of denying him a second time. She wants to, but she cannot deny herself. It's been her dream, her obsession for far too long, and he's right, he's so fucking right that it hurts. This is all by her doing, her power and her longing have beckoned him here. Even her own muscles betray her, twitching, aching at the feel of him so close, her whole body seeking only to draw him in.

"Yes, damn you," she says, not in a whisper, but as loud as her strangled voice can manage. "I want this. I want you – I_ need_ it."

The deal is made, consequence be damned. She cries out at the feel of him, filling her slowly, rigid and relentless, until he's pushed right up into her, fully seated within her wet heat. He's big – _Christ_, he's so big, filling her past any of her previous limits – but she's been more than ready for him for so long. She savours the sweet pain as he stretches her, occupies her body like it belongs only to him. He takes her the way she's been aching for, every slow, deep thrust marking her as his, gaining force as she squeezes down around him – a reminder that he is hers, as well.

Both of them groan out their ecstasy, their joyful disbelief at being brought together this way, and even in the Goblin King's moment of triumph, she can hear the wonder in his voice as he speaks. "Joined at last – _inside_ you at last."

Every stroke finds that sweet place inside her; every withdrawal leaves her lost until he urges her open for the next. He takes his time in fucking her world apart, sure to let her feel every last, solid inch of his cock, but with every second that passes he gives in a little more, and with every pull he draws back a little less. This is about taking instead of giving, neither one willing to surrender fully, but they work together until they find the rhythm they both need. It needs to be hard, and it needs to be slow, full and _deep_, and painstaking enough so neither of them can ever, _ever_ forget.

He fucks her through her first orgasm, his steady thrusts momentarily stilled by the hold of her body as those secret muscles pulse and tighten around him. Pure fire rushes through her every vein, every nerve, and she's shaking, her body out of her control and seized by his as she cries out in rapture. Though he pins her with his weight and with his cock, driving her down into their dark union's bed, she's never felt stronger. In that profound instant, she can move mountains, and call upon the very stars to do her bidding.

"Yes, Jareth, _yes_," she moans, and somewhere above her, he speaks his affirmation of it all alongside her.

In the moment of clarity that comes after, she's able to look around them, finally able to discern shapes within the darkness. She sees the remains of an ancient and long-forgotten civilisation, white stone pillars as solid and thick as the feel of _him_ still inside her. They stretch up like the fingers of giants to impossible heights, deep into the blackness that passes for sky. Carved deep enough into the stone to outlast the ages is a sea of beautiful and haunting faces, each one peering out at her from beneath the winding clutch of ivy; surrounding each one are more markings, the story they tell, the strange shapes of a language that's completely alien to her.

She doesn't need to count to know that there are nineteen pillars in all, and they've been standing, _waiting_, just like the foundations she set down so long ago within her room.

As she looks on in awe, they begin to fall one by one, pushed by some great and unseen hand to tumble like so many children's building blocks. The impact as each one hits the ground should be deafening, should be powerful enough to split the earth, and to jar every tooth from her head, but her lover starts to move again, to fill her anew, and all she can feel is him. She concentrates on the carnal motion of their bodies, the deep thrust and the withdrawal, the rise and the fall …

Falling …

_Falling in love … _

In her mind's eye, a clock suddenly strikes thirteen, and everything makes sense.

In the few words they've spoken to one another, in her desperate need for him to just _take_ her that night, she forgot the small but significant matter of her return. She never asked for it, demanded a promise from his sly, trickster's mouth, and she knows for damn certain that he won't be offering any time soon. That night, and maybe all nights that come after, she belongs to him. She's lost in the strange and fathomless blue of his eyes as that molten heat, that irresistible surge of passion begins to build inside her once again, and right there with him, as perhaps she's always been destined to be, she has no immediate desire to be found. She clings onto his hair, his shoulders, his hips; she holds tight to any part of him that she can reach as they clash together, and she refuses to be cleaved apart – refuses to do anything but urge him deeper inside her to make them one.

"That's it, Sarah – that's it. All these years I have been kept out, denied what is due to me … but now, with you beneath me … _beside_ me, always … with your will as strong, and your kingdom as great …" He growls his conquest into her ear as the sky cracks open above their heads; as he gives her the last few hard, hurried strokes, that deep friction they both so desperately need. "We're going to turn the entire cosmos on its head, love. _Believe_ it."

The feel of him filling her, shooting hot and thick inside her, is what pushes her over the edge a second time. His strained cry of completion spurs her own climax, and as she's coming with him, coming hard, and with no way of knowing when – or even _if _– she'll ever return, god help her, but she does.


End file.
